


The Best Crapshoot There Ever Was

by compo67



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool (Movieverse), Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Age Difference, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Banter, Deadpool being Deadpool, Eventual Peter Parker/Wade Wilson, Feelings Realization, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, New York City, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, POV Wade Wilson, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Precious Peter Parker, Slice of Life, Slow Build, golden girls references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-05-19 15:49:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14876732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: New York is such a crapshoot.It can’t all be Donald Trump walking through the Plaza Hotel, committing one of the first acts of the end of the world: messing with god damn Macaulay Culkin. Sometimes it--New York, not Donald Trump--can be beautiful. Gorgeous. Shit-tacular. Fan-fucking-tastic.And.There's Spidey.





	1. Chapter 1

 

New York is such a crapshoot.

It can’t all be Donald Trump walking through the Plaza Hotel, committing one of the first acts of the end of the world: messing with god damn Macaulay Culkin. Sometimes it--New York, not Donald Trump--can be beautiful. Gorgeous. Shit-tacular. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Just look at that architecture. The Chrysler Building. The Empire State Building. Other giant, phallic symbols filled with people who would rather yell at their waitstaff than leave anything above a fifteen percent tip. That’s beauty. That’s fucking iconic as hell.

And still.

Two people--not just one. Not just one and a half. Not just one and three quarters, two-- have the audacity to stroll up and down Lexington Avenue wearing fanny packs.

Fanny packs.

No, no. It’s cool. It’s fine. The fanny pack part is fine. Not exactly stylish, but hey, not everyone wants to buy a three hundred dollar romper and a six hundred dollar purse so they can use the bathrooms on the Chrysler Building observation deck where the literal butt of humanity has touched every single fucking surface, including the handles to the stalls.

What’s inside the fanny packs matters.

Isn’t that just the way? It’s always what’s inside that counts.

Like the syringes full of concentrated bleach these two elderly white ladies have been carrying around since they emerged out of the Grand Central Terminal.

They look so cute. Kind of like old ladies in a Norman Rockwell painting. Rosy cheeked. White hair. Pastel sweaters and matching slacks. That’s right. Slacks. Not just pants. Slacks. And gym shoes with a good heel because no one can be too careful on city sidewalks.

Cute.

God damn adorable.

If an adoption shelter existed for little old ladies, these two would be first picks. Look at them. They probably bake cookies for homeless people.

Maybe they should take that up as a hobby.

Instead of oh, their incredibly creative hobby of injecting homeless people with bleach.

Wade drops down in front of them and blocks their righteous path. “I wish you would have stayed back in Kansas, posting Minion memes on The Facebook. You know, I hate a lot of things. Vegan food. Uber. The fact that you can bounce a nickel off Captain America’s ass. But Minions? Don’t get me started on Minions. Hatred-adjacent to the Minions, I really, really hate Olaf. Global warming was invented to obliterate his kind.”

Both ladies look up, startled, and yet completely unafraid.

“My goodness,” one of them gasps. “We’re just visiting our grandsons in college.”

“Maybe,” the other says, smiling, “we can ask him for directions.”

“Oh sure! Directions!” Wade places his hands on his hips and looks around. “Let’s see, directions. Well, first I can tell you to head two blocks up to Fuck You, make a left on Fuck You Motherfuckers, and two stores down, next to the Discount Liquor, you’ll see Right Between the Eyes, which you’ll be glad to know is the direction I’ve decided to take this in. Yep.” Two wrinkled foreheads meet the cold tips of Desert Eagles. “Right between the eyes.”

Not a damn soul stops and asks if the ladies need help.

It could be because that’s just how it is in good old New York. Giuliani thought he cleaned the place up, just like he thought he’d make a good buddy to Trump. Wrong, wrong, hella fucking wrong.

But it might also be the fact that the Desert Eagles aren’t the only weapons available in a pinch. Any jerkass can carry a gun in New York. But it takes a special kind of lunatic jerkass to carry katanas.

To their credit, the ladies maintain their cool. They’ve probably been doing this sadistic shit for a while, never getting caught because, well, no one ever suspects little old ladies.

From out of the shiny Tower his curmudgeonly father-figure-mentor-boss keeps him in, Rapunzel descends and sticks a perfect landing on the sidewalk. Spider-Man joins the scene, clearly disturbed by it, clearly also hoping it’s not what it looks like.

Except it is.

It is exactly what it looks like.

Probably.

“Mr. Wilson?” Spider-Man sighs. “What are you doing?”

Wade beats the ladies to the punch and issues the first squeal of joy. “Spider-Man! In all his Spidey glory! Well, Webs, since you’re late to the party, let me explain. My friends here are a little confused. And by confused, I mean fucked up in the head. So I was just gonna fuck ‘em up in the head a little more. Couldn’t hurt. Except that it would because I would make sure it hurts. I _could_ slice their throats open from ear to ear, but that’s a lot less poetic. Oh, oh! Maybe I could do them in with their own instruments of destruction. How about it, ladies?” Wade doesn’t withdraw the Eagles. “It’s your lucky day--you both get to die while Spidey watches.”

Predictably, the ladies shout to Spider-Man about their innocence and Wade’s obvious mental instability. Obvious? Yes. Mental instability? Double yes. But their innocence?

“I’m bored,” Wade says with a yawn. He moves on from the Eagles to the katanas, ready to carve up some roast beef. “Are you two organ donors? I’m asking for a friend.”

Also predictably, Spider-Man stands between Wade and the ladies. He’s maybe two inches taller than the ladies, but he addresses Wade with some kind of bizarre, intriguing authority.

“I think I’ll take over from here, Mr. Wilson,” Spidey declares.

“Isn’t this kind of beneath The Avengers?” Wade whispers loudly. “I can fillet them in a few seconds and toss ‘em into the Hudson. How’s _that_ for efficient.”

“No,” Spidey hisses. “That’s not going to work.”

“Well, shit. I tried, sweetums. Oh, also, granny on your right is fixing to stab you with a syringe she filled with concentrated bleach. You know, the kind they clean the toilets with at Yankee Stadium.”

Since it was Spidey’s idea to swing by (ha-ha), Wade lets him fix the stabby stabby issue himself.

A few tourists try and stop for selfies with the web slinger of the hour. Wade shoos them along and thanks them for visiting the Big Apple--possibly the only city in the world with a high chance of witnessing Spider-Man take down two grannies and wrap them up in a web like a present for the NYPD.

“How’d you know?” Spidey brushes off some dust and rubble from the tumble.

Wade laughs and shrugs. “I know it might seem like I get my jollies picking on random, elderly white ladies and threatening them with murder—hey wasn’t that fun?” One of the ladies starts chanting a lovely mix of obscenities and threats. Spidey just turned eighteen a few months ago. He doesn’t deserve to hear such foul language. Wade kneels down and quietly issues a few threats of his own if she continues to mouth off in front of Webs while they wait for the boys in blue.

Spidey stands with his arms crossed over his chest, monitoring the situation closely, watching every move Wade makes. “You are very odd, Mr. Wilson.”

“Well, thank you, sweetums. And you are unnervingly polite,” Wade replies, standing up. He’s significantly taller than Spidey, but that doesn’t faze the kid. Even through the mask, Wade can tell the kid’s got direct eye contact down. “These two Golden Girls killed a friend of a friend last night. Seems that they like to put people on the streets out of their misery. You know, typical psychotic savior bullshit. Excuse me. Typical crapstuff.” Crapstuff. It’s an attempt.

“Are you staying in the city?” Is this small talk? Is this one of the Avengers making small talk with… him? Didn’t some billionaire playboy teach this kid not to talk to strangers? Strangers who so happen to possess a long background of questionable ethics (eh), mental illness (don’t we all?), and frighteningly dashing good looks (hmm)?

The two of them stand on the sidewalks of New York City, in full spandex bodysuit wonder, as people mill around them.

It’s a nice day out.

What’s a little small talk? Just don’t fuck it up. Spidey’s doing his best. Not everyone can be delightfully jaded and walk the fine, fine line between total screwball and total fuckwit.

Wade answers the question with the truth (shocker). “I decided to drop by, kick some old lady ass, maybe get a hot dog, buy one of those I <3 NY shirts.”

Finally, law enforcement arrives. How legitimate they are depends on who you ask. But they have all the sanctioned uniforms and badges and other shit that makes civvies stop jaywalking. Wade motions for Spidey to take the lead talking to the coppers. He’s not exactly the biggest fan of cops and they, in turn, seem relieved not to have to speak to him. Ain’t that just the way.

“Remember,” Wade calls out to the ladies, “your fanny pack asses got lucky this time. If there’s a next time, I’ll find yooOooOou!”

The door slams shut.

All in a day’s work.

Or something like that.

“Well, I liked my plan of killing them slowly and painfully,” he admits, turning to Spidey, who hasn’t disappeared. “But… your method was alright. I guess. Hey, you okay?”

He got word of the Golden Girl situation yesterday, spent all night interviewing the few people he could get to provide any substantial information, and tracked them this morning. Now the job’s done, even if it hadn’t ended the way he wanted. But the kid, whose reputation precedes him, just stands there, one arm crossed over himself and his shoulders tilted forward.

Is he… shaking?

Wade reaches out and places a hand on Spidey’s spandex shoulder. “Holy fuck balls, did one of the Golden Girls actually stab him? Shut up, I’m asking. Websey, speak up, Websey. He doesn’t look hurt. _You_ don’t look hurt. Hey, hello, sweetums, talk to me, you’re freaking me out and that’s not easy to do.”

“Hot dog,” Spidey blurts out, jolting back to life. “Let me buy you a hot dog.” A second later, he adds, “If I could, Mr. Wilson. Mr. Deadpool?”

Visit the Big Apple.

Put an end to the deranged Golden Girls.

Grab a hot dog with Spider-Man.

Cue “This Will Be (An Everlasting Love)” by who other than Natalie Fucking Cole.

“Spidey, I thought you’d never ask.”

What a crapshoot.


	2. Chapter 2

Cue “We’re Going to Be Friends,” by The White Stripes.

Spider-Man buys four hot dogs and two cans of Fanta from a street vendor in Central Park.

Instead of a rooftop, Spidey opts for a park bench. He takes a seat, divvies up the food, lifts the bottom of his mask, and goes to town the way any eighteen year old with a supercharged metabolism would after coming off an early morning patrol of the city. 

Wade sits down next to Spidey and analyzes the situation. 

There are onions on his hot dogs. 

It’s better than onions on his weiner.

But still. 

So maybe he lied about wanting a hot dog. And maybe that wasn’t a lie, but the product of whatever was rattling around in his head at the time, which, ehh, could have been worse. He could have said that he came to the Big Apple to dine on chimichangas. Wait. That would have been true. Or accurate. Correct. What the fuck ever.

Spidey finishes his first hot dog and pauses before starting on the first. He looks over at Wade, the eye portion of his mask narrowing and widening as he takes in details of Wade and their surroundings. His mouth twitches into a smile. 

“You know,” Webs quips, “it’s kind of awesome to have lunch with you, Mr. Deadpool.” 

“Sweetums, can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, yes, of course.”

“...are you sure you know who I am?” 

“I know I’m gonna eat your lunch if you’re not gonna touch it.”

Wade picks up one of the hot dogs. “If I’m eating, I’m not wearing my mask, sugar beet. It’s coming off.” He’d take a lot more than his mask off, but this is neither the time nor the place. There are some occasions that call for a strip tease and some that don’t. The majority do, but this isn’t one of them. 

With a shrug, Spidey starts on the rest of his lunch. He takes a swig of Fanta then… 

He starts talking.

Like a mile a minute.

Except faster.

Holy shit balls. He talks about anything and everything. The god damn weather. Some physics shit like the equation for translational motion. His best friend’s belief that being Spider-Man should theoretically allow him to command an army of spiders, but the other day, the spider that has taken up residence in his room at the Tower barely gave him a second glance. Would it be okay to take a selfie together? Mr. Stark said to make friends. Going from living in a two bedroom apartment he shared with his Aunt May in Queens to having an entire wing in the Tower hasn’t been the smooth transition he had hoped for. It’s great. Of course it’s great. The tiles in the bathroom are heated. Heated! The fridge is fully stocked all the time. All. The. Time. The Cap tries to sneak in vegetables and juices, but if he wants pizza rolls at four in the morning, he can have pizza rolls at four in the morning. Mr. Banner has seven PhDs. Seven. In a couple of years, it might be possible to get one, but seven? 

Holy fuck.

And they call Wade the Merc with a Mouth. 

“Spidey.”

“Yeah? Yes?”

Oh no.

It’s a beautiful day in New York City.

Look, a racially diverse family enjoying a horse and carriage ride. Teenagers of various socioeconomic backgrounds skateboarding. The grass is green. The sky is blue. 

And Wade.

One box tells him to leave. Run. Drop everything and disappear or risk getting involved with the Avengers and all their mess. It’s been super fucking weird enough with the X-Men. Fly solo. Make like a glacier and split off. Drift into the sea of working alone, fucking shit up alone, and sitting on his couch at the end of a long murder spree alone. Let the author get back to writing E material about two plaid-cloaked brothers traveling across the country picking fights with demons and ghosts. Everyone walks away a winner.

But.

The second box. The idiot box. 

It tells him to stay.

For no other reason than he enjoys the Queens accent and being called Mr. Wilson or Mr. Deadpool. It’s cute. Disarmingly cute. In fact, Wade is fairly certain this is one of Spidey’s best weapons: talking and distracting his opponents until they eventually realize he’s had the upperhand all along. Smart, sweetums. Very smart.

“So?” Spidey waves his hand to get Wade’s attention. “What were you gonna say?” 

“I hate onions.” 

“You do? Damn. Sorry, let me buy…”

Wade takes off his mask. 

Cue “La Pena Negra” by Maria Jose because it’s all about tragedy and pain and angst and…

Spidey smiles. He god damn fucking smiles and it hurts because what the shit is this dude for real? Now the boxes have no clue. No clue at all what to do with this beautiful day in the Big Apple brought to you by your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man who doesn’t flinch at the sight of a messed up mug.

Wade picks up a hot dog and flicks off pieces of onion.

Cue “I Can’t Help Myself (Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch) by the Four Tops. 

“Websey, I’m gonna inhale these wieners--sorry, I had to--and then we’re gonna find ourselves someplace to get chimichangas. Deal?” 

There’s that smile again. Spidey takes a sip of his Fanta and stands on the bench, arms stretched out. 

“It’s a deal. Are those katanas? They are so cool. How long did it take you to deflect bullets with them? Is it weird that I kinda wanted to command a spider army?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think i'm gonna go for four chapter of this. :)


	3. Chapter 3

Cue “Mama Said,” by The Shirelles.

Imagine a hangover.

A horrible hangover. The kind that makes the sweet release of death more and more appealing by the minute. That’s the one.

Wade wishes he could feel that kind of hangover. Or any hangover, really.

“Fuck me in St. Olaf,” he grumbles, rolling over on an unknown surface. Oh. Wait. He’s on a bed. “Fuck. Shit. Fuck.” Okay, the presence of ammo, two grenades, a unicorn plushie, and Roberta the Rockin’ Red Vibrator prove that he’s on his own bed.

“Roberta, fuck me in St. Olaf,” he clarifies.

Sitting up, Wade conducts his typical morning--is it even morning?--routine. All body parts present? Check. All body parts correctly in order? Check. The ability to flip the bird? Right hand? Left hand? Check, check. Wallet? ...negative. Oh, wait, he doesn’t carry a wallet.

Because he’s fucking Deadpool.

Evidence of the previous night reveal themselves to him as he staggers from his bed to the bathroom--naked except for his right boot. Jerk ass boot. Whatever. There are worse things than standing at the toilet to pee and only wearing one boot. He could be wearing no boots and then both feet would be cold. Wouldn’t that be just awful?

He bypassed a robust number of empty bottles, all of which no doubt once contained beverages of the alcoholic kind. Couple of crumpled packs of cigarettes. Yuck, Marlboro. He’s a Virginia Slims man, so clearly, he wasn’t in his right mind last night.

Hmm. So an amount of booze that could temporarily stun a New Jersey housewife plus some wrong-brand cancer sticks.

Sounds like a recipe for a fairly tame night.

Wade looks at himself in the bathroom mirror. And by himself, he means the picture of Bea Arthur he duct taped to the mirror when he first moved into this place three weeks ago.

“You look ragged,” Wade says with a yawn and pokes at the bags under his eyes. Bea’s eyes? His eyes. “We definitely need cheesecake.”

Julia Roberts chimes in that while he’s in the bathroom, he might as well make like a prostitute with a heart of gold who flosses after eating strawberries given to her by Richard Gere and perform some oral. Oral hygiene. On Richard Gere’s character. Or maybe actual Richard Gere. Who knows? Well, Weasel might know, but there’s no need to disturb Richard Gere. Yet.

Since no one should neglect their gums, Wade faithfully brushes and flosses his teeth. It also helps to clear out the taste of something having died in his mouth overnight. Excellent.

Aside from his skin hurting--which who the fuck is he kidding, it always hurts--he doesn’t feel much. No hangover. No liver failure. Not even a sore throat from knocking back what was probably some substance a step above turpentine.

And that sucks.

It sucks balls.

All he wanted to do was punish himself by way of alcohol poisoning and a few smokes. Smokin’. Will Jim Carrey ever film a sequel to The Mask?

Still naked, still wearing one boot, Wade climbs into the lime green bathtub and moves the faucet with his feet. He lies there, limbs askew, and stares at the grimy ceiling overhead as equally grimy water fills up the tub.

Oh fuck.

He’s trapped in a glass case of emotion.

It’s not his first choice to be emotionally constipated and confused, like many a masculine of center Marvel folks. But he is what he is. Emotions have never been his strong suit. Neither has common sense. Or the ability to distinguish between right and wrong.

Wait. Backtrack on that last one.

Three weeks ago, he wondered why the hell Spider-Man was buying him a hot dog in Central Park. The day after, he wondered why the hell he was renting out a studio in Brooklyn. The day after that, he received a text on the burner phone covered in Bob the Builder stickers: just a bunch of spider emojis. He hadn’t given Websey that number. The day after that, he wondered why the hell he was picking up a Starbucks order so unlike his own—venti cinnamon dolce Frappuccino with extra whipped cream and caramel drizzle—to deliver it to the rooftop of some building in Manhattan.

He stole a sip of that Frappuccino before forking it over to Webs, who clearly runs on sugar, and holy shit balls it was delicious.

The night after that, Spidey invited him out on patrol.

Right and wrong.

Right: showing Spidey how to clean a gun because hell, everyone should know proper firearm maintenance, even people who can do whatever it is that Spider-Men do.

Wrong: hanging around Spidey at all.

Even wronger: developing a hopeless crush on said Spidey.

The wrongest: not wanting that crush to go away.

Spidey is like Sandra Dee. Too pure to be pink. Wade’s not calling himself Rizzo, but he’s calling himself Rizzo. Is there fan fiction of Sandy/Rizzo? Why is he asking himself this instead of looking it up right the fuck now. Maybe fan fiction will give him more than just words to fap to. Maybe it’ll give him guidance and wisdom and insight and crap like that.

It’s not so much the age difference as it is the difference in… everything else. Wade likes his targets dead and deader. There’s a thriving business in the art of separating heads from bodies, especially when those heads are sex traffickers and serial killers and other crime syndicate individuals superheroes often deem beneath their pay grade.

Just thinking about slicing the throat of some dick waffle who makes a living selling organs on the black market makes Wade all tingly and happy.

Spidey kicks ass. Literally.

But his technique and approach couldn’t be more different than Wade’s even if they wrote the script themselves. Spidey doesn’t kill any of the perps he ensnares. In fact, he hardly bruises them up.

He places his trust in justice and truth.

Wade places his trust in good old fashioned violence.

Nothing gets results like a bullet to the brain or a slice to the jugular. He should take a job. Get his mind off. Get himself off. No, wait. Get his mind off of killing. Then he can get himself off.

Somehow, Wade manages to pour some Hello Kitty bubble bath into the tub. He adds more hot water and scrubs at his face. “Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m in trouble.” He might as well start belting out Taylor Swift songs from here to eternity. Not that that’s an entirely terrible thing. Just the other night, he set up his phone to play “Shake it Off” for Spidey while they had downtime on Spidey’s overnight patrol.

And hey. So maybe they danced in perfect synchronization, each of them in full uniform. They only danced next to each other. Not necessarily together.

Deadpool has no business teaming up with Websey.

Or laughing so much with him.

Or looking forward to random texts about science puns, physics formulas, or a running commentary on his Aunt’s failed turkey meatloaf and how she insists on trying to make it over and over again.

“Yup, shit fucked,” Wade declares before submerging underwater.

 

Spider-Man texts Deadpool an address and instructions: “Best behavior. 3PM.”

It takes a monumental amount of effort not to show up in a tutu and tiara.

Wade Googles the address before heading over because hi, he’s not stupid. Well. Not in that sense. Is he stupid for turning down a job this afternoon so that he can go hang out with his spandex buddy? Yeah, okay, he is stupid for turning down that job, but when Spider-Man texts known mercenary Deadpool the address to a nursing home in Queens, that is just too good to pass up. Besides, Wade got someone else to take out the garbage.

What could Spidey want to do at a nursing home? Maybe this is his commentary on their age difference. Maybe he’s going to invite Wade in for dinner and gently suggest that he start thinking about his future.

“I doubt that,” Chelsea, Wade’s Uber driver says, grazing the briefcases of a few pedestrians while making a right turn onto 108th Street.

“Yeah,” Wade sighs. He taps his knees with the palms of his hands, stupidly nervous. “I mean, this place is probably nicer than where I’m staying now, but kind of forward of him, dontcha think?”

Chelsea looks a lot like one of Obama’s daughters. Maybe she is and this is her way of trying to have an ordinary life. “I’m not,” she quips. “But a lot of people do think I look like Malia. I get free food all the time. And how old is this person you’re meeting?”

“Oh, like, eighteen.”

“And how old are you?”

“Hoo boy, going for the tough questions right away, Ms. Obama. Well, for your information, I’m a spry thirty-four.”

“Huh. I thought older.”

“Is it the mask? Does it make me look older?”

“You had no idea how the Uber app worked.”

“Well, this is a new phone.”

“Same app.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Nope.”

“Yep.”

“Nuh uh.”

“You’re really nervous, aren’t you?” Chelsea narrowly avoids hitting a fire hydrant.

Wade clears his throat and answers with a confident, “Fuck yes.”

The blue Honda Accord stops in front of a respectable nursing home on a quiet street. This is the right address, the right time, and Wade wants to crawl out of his skin. Which he could literally do, but maybe he should wait until after the designated “best behavior” time is up.

Chelsea fusses with her phone, fingers quickly moving. She doesn’t look up from whatever she’s doing. “I bet he has a thing for older guys.”

“So he invites me to a nursing home?”

“Well, _that_ , I can’t explain. Except maybe he wants you to meet his sweet old grandmother.”

“Hmm. That’s possible. It would ramp up the sentimental factor. Do you think I’ll need my guns?”

“Are we talking about guns as in your arms or guns as in the things bullets fly out of?”

“Both.”

Chelsea unlocks the doors and looks over her shoulder. “When I met my last girlfriend’s grandmother, I wish I had been heavily armed. You’ll be fine. You can call me if you need a kick in the ass or a slap to the face to stop being such a chicken shit. But not after five. Traffic sucks.”

Since Wade hates the Uber app--it’s a fucking shitty app!--he leaves a few fifty dollar bills and a Hello Kitty sticker in the backseat.

He stands outside the nursing home wondering what the balls is he doing here. Should he have dressed in civilian clothes? But he’s ninety-nine percent sure none of the nursing home residents would enjoy looking at his face. He could have put on a burlap sack and hung a “Too Ugly to Live” sign over his chest.

It’s not too late to turn back and let Spider-Man continue living his life with upstanding morals and ethics. Go save people, hunt things. Wait. Wrong fandom.

Okay. Go in there. Stop being such a chicken shit.

Cue the chorus in “My Number,” by Tegan and Sara because it’s a silly time to learn to swim when you start to drown, Deadpool.

Bea Arthur, save him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for everyone's wonderful feedback! <3 
> 
> i'm just enjoying this so MUCH. i am aiming for getting deadpool's pov down the more i write. :D


	4. Chapter 4

Picture it: Sicily, 1922. An attractive peasant girl who has saved her lire embarks on a glorious vacation to a Crimean resort on the Black Sea.

Wait. Something’s wrong there.

Picture it: Queens, present day. An attractive peasant boy who has saved his dollars embarks on a glorious rendezvous to a nursing home off of 108th street. 

There, that’s more like it. And he may or may not be packing a bit more heat than Sophia. But not by much, because everyone knows Sophia never left the house without at least four Glocks. Two in thigh holsters, one inside her sweater, and one in her purse, motherfuckers.

Wade marches up to the information desk and politely demands that he be shown to Spider-Man. If the sixty year old volunteer, Rosa, as her name tag suggests, tries to pull a fast one on him, he’ll just have to very politely repeat himself a little louder because she might not have her hearing aids on. 

Deadpool: Hardened Criminal. 

Criminal isn’t the right word there, is it? But he’s definitely hardened. 

Well. Not at the moment--that would be rude. Best behavior and all that.

Rosa shuffles in front of him and proceeds to give into his demands. She lets him know what a treasure Spider-Man is to the city, and talks about him as the patron saint of the people. Wade snags a pudding cup off of a dining cart and tucks it into his Hello Kitty backpack for later. 

He might also have to snag a wheelchair. Not because it would be an enormous amount of fun to roll around in it, Roman chariot style, but because he knows a few folks without the benefit of health insurance or a permanent address who could use one. 

Or maybe he should yank a chair from the nearest airport. Then he can get more than one chair  _ and _ take a spin down the luggage corral. 

Holy fuck, nursing homes depress the living daylights out of him.

It isn’t just the sight of folks sitting in their rooms, watching The Wheel at a volume so loud it could snap ear drums at twenty paces. It’s the smell. As if someone threw a plastic fork into a microwave and pressed the button for lava. Wade takes a deep breath because he’s a masochist and because he smells boiled celery somewhere. 

What kind of godless place serves boiled celery?

Oh, and he might smell death. That’s possible.

“Rosa,” Wade chimes in, interrupting her story about how to win at blackjack. “Has anyone kicked the bucket here this week? Bought the farm? Moved upstate? Forsaken all their friends in the city because now it’s time to settle on down in the suburbs and start a family even though, you know what, John, I really do hate sleeping with you and I’m not ready to give up my career.”

In the middle of the hallway, Rosa stops walking and turns to Wade. She eyes him carefully for a second and a half before smiling and pointing at her hearing aids. “What was that, dear?” 

Think of all the times Hawkeye could have tuned out the collective whining of the Avengers with hearing aids. Except all those times will never happen because the studio couldn’t be bothered to make Hawkeye Deaf. God dammit, Stan Lee.

“Sometimes I like to take a hit of acid and watch Courage the Cowardly Dog,” Wade admits with a sigh.

With a smile, Rosa pats his shoulder. “That’s okay, dear. The point is that you’re trying.”

Hmm. What could that possibly mean, Element of Foreshadowing? 

Rosa stops in front of a room marked “Computer Lab.” She instructs him to be nice to Spider-Man and let her know if he needs anything. 

So. 

This is weird.

Not I cut off a sex trafficker’s hand and it kept twitching for a good ten minutes until I thought the Addams Family was missing Thing kind of weird. 

The Computer Lab holds a grand total of fourteen computers set up along the perimeter of the room. In the center of the space is a station complete with a printer, a fax machine, a copier, and a large desk. Four residents occupy four computers. Wade catches a glimpse of the Home Shopping Network’s logo on one of the screens, which reminds him. What the fuck is he doing here.

“Mr. Wilson!” Spider-Man himself, in full spider suit glory, sits next to one of the residents. He waves, excuses himself, and walks over to meet Deadpool. “You’re on time. That’s a good sign. Or a bad one. Let’s go with good.”

Wade crosses his arms over his chest. “Spidey, I know I might seem really old to you, but this is a tad premature. Also, I want to live out the rest of my days in a ranch style home. In Miami. With three other adults who are also in their golden years. And with cameras rolling to capture our hilarious yet heartwarming antics.”

Hands up, laughing nervously, Spidey attempts to explain. “No, no, no, no--that’s not why I asked you here. I…”

“I won three thousand dollars!” One of the residents, a woman in a canary yellow dress, stands up from her chair. “I won!” 

Faster than a speeding bullet, Spider-Man swoops over. “Mrs. Sarnelli, I sent you that email, remember? We’re practicing safety on the Internet.”

Mrs. Sarnelli eyes Spidey as if he were the owner of three heads. “This email here says I won three thousand dollars. All I gotta do is send them my checking account number so they can deposit my prize.”

“There is no prize, Mrs. Sarnelli. I’m pretending to scam you, like a con artist.”

“This isn’t some Nigerian prince! It’s from The Center for Free Giving.”

“ _ I _ made up that name.  _ I _ sent you the email.  _ I’m _ showing you how to protect yourself from con artists on the Internet.” 

“You said we were going to win prizes today, young man. I got this email telling me I won three thousand dollars and I’m gonna win three thousand dollars.”

“I said we were going to learn that sometimes scams will say you’ve won prizes,” Spidey clarifies, the last of his soul leaving his body. “Do you know the number to your checking account?” 

Mrs. Sarnelli waves him away. “Yes! Now turn the other way so I can type it!” 

Wade leans against the desk in the center of the room. He gives Spidey a rousing slow clap. “Wow. Just wow. I’m giving you a ten out of ten in the ‘I didn’t realize Spider-Man is a literal angel among men’ category. But only an eight for the dismount. But another ten in ‘is he too precious for this world or is he a precious cinnamon roll, the world will never know’ category.” 

Websey is clearly way, way, waaaaay out of Wade’s league in both a romantic sense and a member of society sense. At around this time yesterday, Wade was carefully determining the best spot to generously gift a cartel member’s member with a shiny bullet. That could have been worded better, but oh well. Not the point.

The point is--Spidey and him? They run with different crowds. They have different #lifegoals.

Spidey speaks in his normal voice. The one not used on Mrs. Sarnelli. “I’m a ten out of ten?”

Fuck. Fuckshitohfuck. This is the problem with human interaction. Well. Interaction with humans who aren’t on the list to unalive. How does talk.

Wade blurts out the only response he can think of that is both within the boundaries of best behavior and could be interpreted as beyond a friendly interest, but also not just in case Spidey isn’t interested beyond friendly. Fuck. This is exhausting.

“Websey, if looks could kill, you would be an Uzi.”

Spidey laughs, which wounds Wade in a way he has prepared for since Spidey offered to buy him new hot dogs without onions. Ah, sweet, flippant rejection, thy name is Deadpool. And Wade Wilson. 

“That,” Spidey sighs and shakes his head, “is a  _ really  _ old song.” He glances back at the residents, just to make sure no one has momentarily killed the Internet. Satisfied, Spidey addresses Wade, a quip to his tone. “Does that make you a shotgun, bang?” 

“Only if you wanna know how it hangs,” Wade shoots back, his heart beating the way it might if it could experience cardiac arrest. 

It’d be unicorns and puppies and sunshine and tequila shots if he could see Spidey’s actual facial expressions. Maybe he has dimples. Maybe his hair has a natural wave to it, but it curls under the mask. Maybe there’s a smattering of freckles over the bridge of his nose. 

Smattering? Really? Let’s just write about tracing freckles like constellations. Or scrambling for purchase or padding through a room or tongues fighting for dominance. 

Say something else, you fuck. Now. Take the edge off maybe maybe not sexual tension out of the nursing home air. Laugh off the last shit to come out of your mouth as just quoting along, being faithful to Salt-N-Pepa's masterpiece. 

For someone whose mouth moves incessantly, Wade can’t bring himself to do that.  

Cue… god dammit, which Taylor Swift song to use here? “You Belong With Me” is so catchy, but there’s no love triangle and Wade always argues with himself over the theme of comparison and women bringing each other down just for a dude. He ships the girl sitting on the bleachers with the cheer Captain. 

Is this convoluted mixed up fucked to all hell enough yet? Is he completely ass over kettle or is he over the moon and dead from lack of air?

Maybe it’s not time for Tay Tay just now. This is more of a Weezer situation. 

Cue “If You’re Wondering if I Want You To (I Want You To).” 

Wade opens his mouth, not knowing what might come out—par for the course. 

A tall man in his late eighties, who moves and speaks like a goddamn Ent, elbows Wade in the ribs. Motherfu—

“This one giving you trouble?” The fucking Ent claps Spidey on the shoulder. “My arthritis isn’t so bad today. I can take care of him for you, lad.”

Spidey holds up his right hand and motions for a stop to all the violence. “He’s not that much trouble just yet, but thank you, Mr. Washington.” He points over to a computer. “I saved your usual spot. Did you wanna Skype anyone today?” 

The Ent takes his goddamn time thinking about it, while Wade grumbles and leans against the desk, next to Spidey. World famous asshole assassin and he couldn’t dodge the elbow of a giant tree. Lousy best behavior agreement. No one “takes care of” Deadpool. Except maybe Al. And the Russian Tin Man. Hmm. Maybe also Brown Panther. Doms will look out for him, but more as a way to continue watching his shit show. See, it’s happening again. Too much in his head and not enough in the outside world, where things and impressions matter. 

“Let’s try Gracie. She just started college this week.”

“That’s great, really great. Do you remember how to sign in?” Spidey moves to the Ent’s station and leans forward to point at the screen and help navigate the mouse. If Wade didn’t know better—and he rarely does—he’d think Spidey was leaning forward a little more than absolutely necessary. 

Is sweet, pure, angelic, savior of New York City, Queens’ own Avenger, intentionally making sure Wade sees just how form fitting that Stark-made suit really is? How it hugs his thick thighs, shows off the dip and curve of chocolate chip, honey dip, can I get a scoop?

Four more residents march into the computer lab. They file past Deadpool and go right for Websey. And you know what? Wade can’t fucking blame them one bit. 

Even without being able to see Spidey’s face, his voice and body language pull people into his orbit. He laughs, shrugs, holds his arms out, excitedly tells a story about being on patrol with Captain America. Wade gets caught up, pulled in, so much so that he ignores the voice that says get the fuck out of this rom com and go get some fucking work done, douchebag. There are baddies to kill and bosses to torture for information and money to collect. 

Nope. 

Wade just watches Spidey set up Facebook accounts, fire up Skype and make sure webcams work. Then he passes out headphones to folks who want them. He makes a suggestion to Mrs. Lieb about her game of Solitaire. Mr. Sheppard Asks for help with YouTube and a crossword puzzle clue. 

What’s the word for, “complete idiot standing around doing nothing because his eyes are glued on Spidey and not always in appropriate places”?

Eight letters.

Mrs. Sarnelli stomps towards the printer. She grabs the single page it spits out and clutches it to her chest. 

“Next week’s lotto numbers,” she mutters at Wade. “Paid a psychic a hundred bucks, but the pot is twenty million, so who had a good day?”

Wade looks down at her, confused and concerned. “Don’t blow it all on strippers and candy,” he cautions, like he’s suddenly Emily Fucking Post. 

“Marry me,” Mrs. Sarnelli commands. “I’ll split the money with you.”

“Tempting,” Wade clucks and taps his chin. “Super duper tempting. But I’m spoken for.” 

“So am I, that don’t stop me,” she huffs and waves him off. “I’m getting the hell outta here.”

Once Mrs. Sarnelli disappears into the black cloud from whence she came, Spidey takes his place back, leaning against the desk with Wade. He folds his arms across his chest and looks over at Wade. 

“Did I hear you say you’re spoken for?” Webs goes right for the balls. Ordinarily, that might be a good thing. Here, Wade isn’t sure. 

“Taken as in my heart belongs to four mature women living their golden years in Miami,” Wade clarifies. “Because I, too, wear nightgowns to bed and wake up at four in the morning for cheesecake.”

Spidey bumps their shoulders together. He then stands up, mentions something about going to grab something to eat, then adds, “It’s too bad you’re taken.” 

Then, like a goddamn professional siren and heartbreaker, Spidey takes a few steps and glances back over his shoulder to Wade. “Because  _ I’m _ single.”

Wade tries not to drool.  Or have a nosebleed.  Or scream in joy and fire off some rounds of ammo in excitement. 

Pleased with himself, Spidey motions for Wade to follow. “C’mon. We’ll get chimichangas and sit on a rooftop somewhere. You know. Like, cool kids.”

Wade takes his original response, suffocates it, tosses its body aside, and helplessly follows after trouble. 

What’s his weakness? (sob)

...Spider-Man. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! i apologize for the absence. liver tumors/surgery. sinus surgery. stats class ended. all that good stuff. T_T
> 
> but! here's 2,400 words just for you! :D i'm still getting the hang of these two and the MCU, but i'm having fun venturing into new territory. comments are love! <3


	5. Chapter 5

Typically, Wade would take a date to the seediest dive on the wharf, populated with every reject and cutthroat from Bombay to Calcutta.

But they are nowhere near Sister Margaret’s. 

He settles for El Rey Authentic Mexican Restaurant on Astoria, between 27th and Crescent. On Yelp, El Rey has one and a half stars, but in Wade’s heart it has a solid two. Sure, they can be somewhat lax on their sanitation standards. Yeah, there are times when whatever floats in the horchata looks questionable. And someone may or may not have contributed to the graffiti in the men’s room by writing the entire short text of “A Rose for Emily.” 

Faulkner, you kinky motherfucker.

Spidey doesn’t bat a single Spider-suit eye at his surroundings. He places an order for a steak taco dinner, extra cheese. Wade orders--what the fuck else--two chimichangas. 

They could be any other pair of humans in New York on a Thursday evening. 

Normal people eat greasy, delicious Mexican food--sitting close together on the rooftop of a ten story building. Normal people wonder if Spider-Man has a kinky side or if he’s as vanilla as the early story arcs suggest. Normal people totally get the urge to stab themselves with a katana every Monday night at 11:59 PM after hours sitting in a bathtub, contemplating the direction their lives have taken. 

Hmm. Maybe not that last one.

But what  _ is _ normal anyway? 

“Boring,” Webs says, then takes a giant bite out of Wade’s chimichanga. 

Wait. 

Webs takes a giant bite out of Wade’s chimichanga.

Again, once more, for the people in the back who haven’t yet realized that this is code for thinking very dirty, nasty, wonderful thoughts about Webs doing whatever he wants to Wade’s impressive chimichanga. Yes. Webs takes a giant bite out of Wade’s chimichanga. 

Stay cool. Fuckshitfuck. No. Stop thinking the F word. The taquito in his suit will rapidly transform into a burrito if he doesn’t stop thinking about how goddamn attractive Spidey looks right in this moment. On this rooftop. Eating greasy Mexican food with gusto. 

Somehow, speech crawls from out of Wade’s throat, kicks his teeth out, and burst free from his mouth in a triumphant display of dominance. “What’s boring?” 

Spidey shrugs and finishes off his horchata. “Being normal.” 

“I said shit out loud again.”

“If it makes you feel better, most of the time, no one’s listening.”

“So you wouldn’t be listening when I tell you in an alternate universe, you’re Afro-Latino and speak fluent Spanish?” 

“What?” Spidey laughs and pulls down his mask. “That’s incredible. Super badass.” Like the adorable precious bean he is, Spidey stands up and balances on the edge of the rooftop. “I think it’s important to have representation in media, especially in pop culture. The more we move away from the able-bodied, conventionally attractive, white male the better. Wait.” He looks back at Wade. “I’m still from Queens though, right?” 

“Brooklyn.” 

With a gasp, Spidey clutches at invisible pearls. “No!” 

“I’ve seen it,” Wade cackles. “It’s okay. In another universe, I’m a car decal sold at Walmart, hung right next to a decal that says, ‘COUNTRY GIRL.’” 

“Oh,” Spidey groans. “That’s pathetic.”

“You wound me, Webs.” 

“The best Toy Story movie is the second one.”

“A dagger!” Wade shrieks. “A dagger to my heart!”

Spidey continues to speak about the virtues of Woody’s Roundup and how it revitalized the narrative, while also providing more depth and higher stakes to a central character. The lilt to his voice fills Wade with warm, fuzzy feelings. Wait. That’s usually the feeling he gets after cutting his own arm off. Arm check. Arm one, check. Arm two, check. Arm three, good to go. 

In every single universe, Spidey maintains his badass status. Sure, there’s one where he’s the incredibly evil Spider-Lizard, but there’s a deus ex-machina antidote and all’s well that ends well. There’s also that one Cannibal Spider-Man, but what’s a little bit of gnawing on human flesh between friends? 

Concentrate, dammit! The climax of this ridiculous shindig is at stake! Who uses the word “shindig” anymore?! 

Sirens and car horns wail in the distance. People on the street shout and laugh. Some asshat in a BMW fails at parallel parking. The space might as well be the entire state of Wyoming, for fuck’s sake. A toddler could park in that spot without a second thought. Maybe Wade should go teach BMW dude how to parallel park without taking three millions years to do so. 

Shut up! 

Stop!

Egregious use of exclamation points!

“My biscuits are burning!” Wade blurts out, flopping flat on his back. “Holy shit, I’m Stinky Pete.”

Spidey walks over and looks down at him. Looks down on him. Wouldn’t blame him for that. Goes down on him. Wouldn’t blame him for that either. Nonononono go back to not  _ that _ . It would be great if, at the end of the night, he could crawl back into bed and never have to relive this particular display of his stupidity and existential suffering. 

Head tilted, Spidey taps his chin as if deep in thought. 

Does he really want to hang out with someone whose hobby includes falling asleep to fake fireplace videos on YouTube at 1 AM, then jerking awake at 2 AM insisting he was only resting his eyes? Even the boxes and voices and whatever other hootenanny floats through his grapefruit unsupervised and wild need to chill to fake fireplace white noise. 

Webs could be spending time with buff demigods, guys that have biceps the size of Wade’s waist. Dudes who look like they’ve stepped off an Australian beach, and after small TV roles, plus a Star Trek gig, land the role of a lifetime playing the god of thunder.

Wait. What.

“Wade.”

“Wade’s not here, man,” he blurts out, half sobbing, half laughing. 

Spidey’s eyes narrow. 

Without warning, faster than a soccer mom throwing back tequila shots on the first day of school, Spidey shoots a load onto Wade’s chest. Or he shoots out a web from the hidden shooter on his wrist and makes it land on Wade’s chest, whatever, same difference. 

“You don’t treat me like I’m less than,” Spidey shares, his voice as steady as the web between them. He pulls Wade forward, a few inches towards him. “I like that about you, Mr. Pool.” 

Cue “Can’t Help Falling in Love by Elvis.

Wait. Too much. That’s too much, right? Spidey just announced he can tolerate Wade’s presence. It wasn’t a marriage proposal. No one’s on their knees. And don’t. That’s too easy.

So cue what? Maybe, instead of arguing with himself, he should actually say something in response to Spidey, because it feels like this is A Moment(™) and the author is trying to push the plot along for once instead of getting all caught up in chaos like usual. REPLY TO SPIDER-MAN.

“Likewise,” Wade manages to say, a little too late and a lot too awkward. “Holy Elvis on toast…”

With his free hand, Spidey removes his mask. 

Cue…

“There’s a universe where you know all the words to ‘Umbrella’ and lip sync it dancing in leather and lace.”

Spidey looks Wade dead in the eyes. His eyes are honey brown, and hold an intense and playful kindness. And his auburn hair curls in waves. His face is all sugar and spice and everything nice, but Wade knows without a shred of doubt, that Spidey could kill him five times before he hit the ground. Okay, maybe four times, Wade’s not  _ that _ slow. 

Yanking him close, Webs leaves two inches of distance between them. He leans in and whispers his next words into Wade’s ear.

“That’s this universe, Wade.”

No fucking shit.

“No shit.”

“Do you hit on me this badly in other universes?” 

“Sometimes worse.”

“Worse?”

“There’s always worse, Webs. Like, ‘If you were  _ my _ professor, I’d be getting D’s all semester.’” 

“Poorly executed  _ and _ in poor taste.” Spidey pauses. “I’m gonna do the kissing thing now, you know, so, shut up for a second.”

Cue… there was a really good song for this moment but… nope. No, sorry.

The world narrows down to Spider-Man kissing Deadpool. 

That’s it.

Yup. 

And Deadpool kisses him right the fuck back.

This might end with a dramatic wide shot, followed by a slow pull out (too easy), then a fade to black. But who the fuck would be happy with  _ that _ ? 

Wade takes command of the second kiss, then the third, groaning when Spidey bucks against him in response. Spidey drags his hands down Wade’s back and…

“Right for the biscuits!” Wade yips. “Hello.” 

Spidey shrugs, smiles, and takes his hands off Wade’s ass. “The no hands on your ass ratio was too big, DP. And last time I didn’t get a piece.”

This is Wade’s opportunity to show Spidey that it’s not a red Swingline stapler in his suit. Or his opportunity to continue making out, grinding against each other, and seeing where the heck this whole Spideypool thing goes. It’s got the potential to be a boss ass crossover franchise, if only Marvel/Disney executives would deal with their fear of two openly queer main characters depicted on screen in a blockbuster movie.

If anything, Spidey and him can take a printer out to a random field and beat the shit out of it, while Stan Lee heckles them in the background. 

Just how far they’ll go will depend on how much weird, strange, and ugly Spidey can handle in his life, because weird, strange, and ugly always find a way to follow Wade. 

But this kissing Spidey thing. 

Feels better than worrying about shit that hasn’t even happened yet.

He can see himself kissing Spidey’s bruised and scarred knuckles after a long day of saving people, hunting things. He can picture the two of them, side by side in a 1967 Chevy Impala, ready to take on the world together for about fourteen or fifteen seasons and becoming the longest running sci-fi TV series in American history. 

They could be the next big thing.

Emphasis on big.

Shockingly, for once in his ridiculous, trauma-filled, jelly in the middle life, Wade opts to shove aside a smart ass remark and use his mouth in a different, more productive way. 

He leans down, then, with care, places his mouth over Spidey’s in a kiss-like fashion. 

Spidey reaches up, wraps his arms around Wade’s shoulders, extends one arm out, and jumps off the ledge as if he was just talking a walk down the street.

“WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! FUCK YES, WEBS! MAXIMUM EFFORT! OH, I AM SO DELIGHTED! THE BELLE OF THE BALL!”

So maybe his mouth isn’t one hundred percent productive yet. 

Wide shot. Pan out. View of the city at night.

New York is such a crapshoot.

Thank fuck. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO!!!!!!
> 
> i didn't forget y'all, loves! i promise! my life has just been one chaotic adventure after another. i'm still a pre-transplant patient, still chronically ill, still struggling with mental health issues. but i'm trying to finish the projects i've started and lately, this fic has been on my mind. if you're a reader of my other work, you'll know i have a tough time ending/finishing things. i'm gonna count this as progress.
> 
> i hope you've enjoyed this fic. i hope to write more of this ship. <3 
> 
> comments are love! thank you for being here. 
> 
> you can find me on tumblr: www.compo67.tumblr.com. :D

**Author's Note:**

> /looks around/ hi! hello. i come from the Supernatural fandom. i'm asking y'all to be gentle with me. i'm not sure where this will go or how far i'll take it, but hey, this was fun to write. :)
> 
> many thanks to my betas J and G. <3
> 
> um. i love these two. i've never been super into anything Marvel or MCU but omg. these. two. i promise, SPN/J2 readers, i will pick up my fics. i just have to get this out of my system. 
> 
> comments are love!


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